


Catharsis

by Anonymous



Series: Cosmic Chronicles [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Porn With Plot, Pre-Season Five, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 16:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “This”—he says, unfolding his arms—“is your fault.”





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> All I have to say is ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯   
>  All mistakes are mine.   
>  Edits made 03-18.

** 5. **

Bellamy drops his head forward to watch the repetitive jerk of Echo’s wrist. Whatever reservations he had about any of this have long been silenced by the pleasant white noise that precedes sexual release. It’s a little rougher than he likes it, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. If anything, the calloused slide of her fingers will expedite completion.

(Her efficiency is welcome. The last thing he wants from Echo is tenderness.)

When the spy’s thumbnail catches on Bellamy’s foreskin, his hips stutter forward. He sucks a breath through clenched teeth, his fingers tightening on the metal ledge of the stall. The spark of pain only heightens the pleasure. He slicks his lips with his tongue many times before the swell of pleasure crests and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip to keep himself quiet. He spills over her knuckles without ceremony.

The evidence disappears through the grating as Echo sticks her hand under the hot shower stream. Without a word, the spy turns her back to him, tilting her head just enough to rinse out any lingering soap from her strands.

And that’s that.

 

** 4. **

The second time it happens, they’re in the shower room again. 

There is no injury keeping Echo from lifting her arms overhead to wash her hair, and so Bellamy doesn’t offer to help. It doesn’t keep him from witnessing her nudity when she steps out from the only working stall. She’s reaching for her towel when she jumps at the sight of him. He’s leaning over the sink with a straight razor in hand, his back turned to her. In the mirror, he impassively drags his gaze across the length of her exposed body.

“You’re bleeding,” she tells him, pressing the towel to his neck.

Bellamy knows better than to let her pluck the blade from his fingers, but she’s standing naked before him and the blood supply customarily allocated for thinking has been suddenly diverted. At least his body has the decency to tense defensively when she first presses the razor to his throat.

(Letting someone shave him is the most intimate thing he’s ever done.)

The realisation is jolting, and he refuses to be the only one left shaken.

Once she’s done, Bellamy grabs her hand. He extricates the straight razor from her grasp and then guides her nimble fingers towards his erection. Eyebrow arched and expression unreadable, Echo holds his stare as she takes him in hand. Despite the lack of resistance, there’s something defiant about her steady gaze.

This isn’t as simple as it was last time.

Holding her stare, Bellamy ghosts his fingers over the coarse hairs at her mound. He pries apart her folds with his middle finger—tentative. The soft gasp that parts her lips emboldens him then, and he sinks two fingers into her without preamble. 

When Echo’s gaze shutters he knows he’s won, though he’s quick to forget what the challenge was.

(Later, he’ll dwell on whether or not she was truly as slick as he remembers.)

 

** 3. **

Bellamy brackets her shoulders with his arms, sweaty hands pressed to the wall behind Echo. It’s cramped and uncomfortable and the only way he can keep himself from being pressed flush against her. The ventilation shaft they were working in collapsed on them. It’s hot and stuffy and they’re both high strung and growing increasingly dizzy.

( _Hang in there_ , Raven tells them. There’s a propane torch on her desk; she just has to finish assimilating it. Her parting words are: _Twenty minutes tops. Keep calm. Breathe easy._ )

Raven’s retreating steps grow fainter and fainter, and it’s all he needs to set off on his tirade: “If you’d listened when I t—”

Echo’s proven herself the best strategist amongst them, so it’s evident that the sudden and vicious clutch of the family jewels is meant to shock him into silence and put an end to his lecture. It works, at first.

(Bellamy _doesn’t_ breathe easy, and carries a chip on his shoulder for nine days after creaming his trousers.)

 

** 2. **

Bellamy has an itch that needs scratching and his own hand doesn’t quite cut it. He hovers around Raven a few times, hoping to lure her away from copper circuits and into his bed. It’s to no avail. Perhaps if he’d just ask her rather than skirting around the issue then he’d get his way, but there’s an inkling of shame that keeps him from being honest.

(It had, after all, been Raven who’d come to him that first and only time.)

On the third night of propositions that never were, Bellamy finally caves.

Raven’s too wrapped up in this project of hers and that means Echo’s alone in the room when he comes to her. The spy glances up from her book as he leans into the doorjamb. Her response to his unexplained presence is a single brow arched high. He sucks air through his teeth and clicks his tongue, feeling genuinely pissed off the longer he stares.

“This”—he says, unfolding his arms and closing the door—“is your fault.”

Echo sets the book aside and slides to the edge of her bed. He steps into the space between her legs before he gets a chance to lose face. The spy immediately knows what he needs. Without preamble, she unfastens his trousers and lures all of his blood south when she glances up through her lashes.

Bellamy slips his thumb into her mouth when she leans back to pump his spit-slick shaft with both hands. Ten fingers—no more or less than he has, and yet it feels completely different. When he feels himself teetering on the edge, he fists her hair and breaches her swollen mouth a second time. His thumb slides across her lower lip, and then presses under her chin when he stills. _Fuck._

(Bellamy feels much better after that.)

(At least until he realises the shadow on her jaw isn’t a shadow at all and that her eyes are constantly averted.)

 

** 1. **

Returning to his hand after that is nothing short of anticlimactic. Bellamy remembers the slick heat of her mouth and soft rasp of her cracked lips, but the harder he clings to the memory the further out of reach it slips. He scrapes the bottom of the barrell and replays their exchanges, but they’re hollow memories.

(He’s overthinking it.)

Bellamy tries to circumvent the problem by thinking of other lovers, but in doing so it is him who ends up hollow: aside from Raven there’s no one else left alive that he’s been with. He cycles through face after face in search of a muse, but all it does is snuff out the flame. Summoning ghosts means his most private moments are now haunted.

(Two weeks pass.)

His mood sours and shit hits the fan. It hits the fan many times a day for many days. In anger Bellamy says things he doesn’t mean, but eventually the guilt it stokes forces him towards sincerity. He goes to Raven, forthcoming at last. They make it to his bed, but too much has transpired between them since the drop-ship days. It’s forty minutes of asynchrony that leave both of them feeling more frustrated than they were before starting. (It’s a deadend.)

“Hey,” Raven says, pausing at the door.

Bellamy glances up from the mess of sheets, hands raking through his hair in frustration.

“We’re not the only ones with an itch to scratch, you know?”

He frowns at her, confused.

“Echo talks in her sleep,”—Raven steps over the threshold and into the hall, hesitating—“Well, it’s not exactly _talking_ , but…”

_Oh._

“—Just putting it out there since this didn’t... well, you know.”

“Right,” he replies tersely. There are certain things a man never wants to hear; being unsatisfactory is one of them. It’s the mutuality of their situation that keeps the offence at bay. (Only just.) 

“Don’t overthink it, Bellamy.”


End file.
